Nancy L. Meek


Often, in the course of human events,
we must say a final farewell to the dead
offer eulogies laced with such eloquence
nothing better could ever be said;

But what words are still left to be wrung
from the hearts of those who survived?
What sorrowful song has not been sung
to express the horror still held inside?

What words will ever be strong enough
to express what our souls need to say?
Is there any poem or speech long enough
to make the hurt completely go away?

Walking through fields where others bled
we deal with our grief one day at a time
yet, we may never know why they are dead
in a world where nothing seems to rhyme.

We sow our seeds in this garden, called life
hoping they all will survive the storm
that the sun, in its glory, will part the night
with strong enough light to keep them warm.

We cross our fingers and pray for rain
but not too much, lest they all should drown.
Cultivating is hard and the thorns bring pain
but it’s still worth it… when we look around.

But seasoned gardeners know all too well
some will wither and die on their stem
or just blend with the earth where they fell
as debris falls to finally cover them.

It is not ours to know who’ll live… or die.
It is but ours to do the best we can.
In love with our flowers, we must try
To nurture the good seed given to man.

Stop living in breast-thumping remorse,
thinking if we’d only done this or done that,
we might have changed history’s course
steered them from those heinous attacks.

It is wrong to tell another, “Just get over it!”
especially if you’re not the tortured soul there
dealing with the greater loss… so close to it,
sorting through the clothes they used to wear.

A whiff of his cologne… her hair on a brush…
physical reminders of where they once trod.
‘Tis not easy… feeling that sweet-awful rush…
knowing your roses are now in the arms of God.

What words, some ask, are still left to be wrung?
Plenty indeed, I say, in this sweet and sour plot.
In a silent garden, many songs are left unsung.
They are there…buried forever beneath that lot!

I weave these words, baring my soul to the world.
For what good it does, I still struggle to know.
All I know is: When I think of those roses unfurled,
I choke, wondering, “Why did they have to go?”

I still hear them calling… calling, softly and low.
There is no silent garden for me, no solace to be found!
Just for today, make them hush. Let the garden go!
‘Tis a curse, no?… this empathy, killing without sound?

Often, in the course of human events,
we must say a final farewell to the dead;
but I am convinced, for all good intents,
such an adieu and my pen shall never wed!

May God bless the innocent victims
with Life and Love without cease
now in the arms of the Rose of Sharon
in Heaven’s Garden of Eternal Peace